


two-faced

by skydork (klismaphilia)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), The Holders (Creepypasta)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Body Horror, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Doppelganger, Emperor Hux, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Other, Physical Abuse, Powerlessness, Ritual Sex, Salirophilia, Self-cest, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Violence, Skin Horror, Verbal Humiliation, Woundplay, rotting bodies described too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/skydork
Summary: “Such a filthy being you are, to threaten me,” Kylo chuckles once more. His hand slides to Hux’s throat and, without remorse, he slams the man’s pretty head right into the floor.Kylo’s grip shifts and tightens, fingers twining in Hux’s hair and jerking until a sudden moan parts from those rosebud lips. “Beautiful only in form,” He continues, “Absolutely disgusting inside. Do you think I could cut the sickness out of you, Hux?Do you think I could fuck it out of you?"





	two-faced

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ ALL THE TAGS.
> 
> repost of an older deleted work. but believe me when I say they don't read the same at all. GOD, that fic needed some serious changes and editing. not because of my beta (who was wonderful the first time around) but because my writing just sucked ass. *headdesk*
> 
> if you guys haven't checked out the infamous Holders creepypasta series, all of the holders can be found on theholders.org. HIGHLY recommend as always. actually, any creepypasta people who need recs, I've got a lot of others I could rec too.

_“One should judge a man based solely on his depravity. Virtues can be faked; depravities are real.” - Klaus Kinski_

* * *

 

 

Mankind is nothing but utter revulsion.

 _Disgust, filth, chaos._ A multitude of names that are all made to denote the unwanted thoughts of what humanity really is. Names that are woven into society, like a contemptuous desperation, a perversion of innocence. It is the certainty of the human condition, the putrid and the wretched, that seems inescapable. To know what it means is madness, and yet to be blind to the world and all its faults is sickness-- there is no in between, and there never has been, when it comes to ignorance and indulgence.

Disgust is what the human condition thrives on, what turns men into animals and drills away the rationale of their humanity until the only thing remaining is a primal, unconscious drive, stuffed away in the back of the human mind.

Perhaps it’s even primitive, these animalistic flaws that even evolution could not purge entirely. _Why must society be so base?_ Is there a means of escaping the monotony which humankind is rooted in, this folly of repetitive behavior that binds each being to one another?

More pressingly: would it matter even if there was?

It is the emptiness, the apathy and the distaste that become smothering. Hux has been choking on it since he can remember, the disdain and cruelty of the surrounding world, a world acquiescing to sheer _disorder._

He remembers that his classmates called him jaded, called him _prudish_ for his monotonous lines of thinking. _The world isn’t black and white,_ Phasma had once told him. Hux disagrees; there is nothing in society that those in power won’t label, won’t ruin, won’t _cast aside like a worthless plaything._

Nihilism is perhaps the only explanation as to why Armitage Hux ended up in the position he is now, his stiff-backed, reedy frame propped against a wall of solid and decaying stone behind him. A cigarette is barely pressed against his lips, half-dangling between his slim fingers, smoked right down to the ashy butt his hand refuses to drop. The doors just around the corner open and close in succession, a repeat of the very tedium that drives every being to their demise.

Hux ignores it-- he can’t bring himself to care. He merely waits, standing in the cold outside the roughed-up police precinct with his black coat drawn up around his shoulders, head upturned and facing in the direction of parking lot before him.

He looks down, counts the money in his hand once more. Each coin seems to carry the weight of a hundred more, his clammy skin cool wherever it touches metal and alloy. Perhaps--and it is always a ‘perhaps’--this entire… _farce_ isn’t worth it. To stand here, contemplating his own fate with a too-smoked cigarette, a few steps away from acknowledging the grisly, immoral passions sliding into his head. Perhaps Hux has gone too far under the guise of being rewarded with _an answer_ to the human problem, especially when said answer is rumored to be too much for a single mind to comprehend.

Of course, a sentient being is merely another subject in the whims of the universe. His fear is irrelevant.

 _Feelings are always irrelevant,_ Hux considers, a principle that had been instilled in him from a young age, an irrefutable point. The force behind his madness, so to speak--a muddled centrifuge of unwanted thoughts.

Brendol Hux, at least, had considered him an unwanted thought as well, and so he raised him the way a master might raise a child soldier. That, in and of itself, was enough to break the mind of whatever young Armitage once was. Funny that he’d once idolized Brendol’s improper parenting and obsession with control, before the clarity of who his father actually _was_ took shape. Brendol was a senile _fool,_ right up to the very end, and _oh,_ Hux had always been too blind to see it before. Too blind to realize the insecurity behind his father’s berating, his derisive insults about his own failure that scalded Hux to the core.

His father’s death spurned a series of ideations less than desirable. Looking back on his upbringing, Hux presumes that Brendol’s demise is the only reason why he’s come to this place, so far beyond human sight and yet so near to the fray of modern society.

The man turns on his heel, flicks his cigarette onto the ground and crushes it promptly beneath his boot. He refocuses on the money and sighs, jade eyes flicking to the dimly-lit entrance of Precinct Number Seven.

Today, Hux decides, he has a good feeling. Today he’s going to find _his holder._

 

* * *

 

 

“I would like to post a bail.”

The prompt delivery of the words jolts the officer out of his reverie. He snaps to attention, rigidly postured as though fearing a reprimand, and meets the chilly gaze of the man before his desk. The power of Hux’s disdainful expression causes the officer to duck his head, cheeks blooming bright with pink. Hux’s expression is callous; it betrays little of his actual intent, though if one were to observe closely enough, they might’ve seen the line of his mouth twitch in bemused acknowledgement. The officer, whose badge proclaims him as _D._ _Mitaka,_ does no such thing, only continues to sit with the same nervous visage. He clicks through a few screens on his desktop monitor before glancing up with a nod. Hux can’t help noticing the tremble of his busy hands.

“Who are you looking for?”

“The one who calls himself the ‘Man of Many Tastes.’”

It is as though the air between them turns frigid; the officer turns his eyes up, betraying something that can only be described as abject _horror._ He falters, sliding back into his chair as if it will swallow him up and save him from whatever fate he is currently facing. Mitaka takes a few seconds to straighten himself out, eyes never leaving his desk as he pauses, coughs, and quips back:  
  
“The bail is… six dollars and nine cents.”

A pile of coins is distributed on the counter in turn: the massive array of quarters on one side, a single nickel, and four pennies on the other, the hand which presented them still clad in a jet-black glove, though the fingertips were sticky with something that glistened, a fluid of unknown origin that glowed faintly under the fluorescent lights.

“There you are. Now, are you going to sit there? Or will you do your job and show me to the cell?”

Mitaka shuffles to his feet. He moves to a door that clicks each time a locks is undone, and then hurriedly replaces them with little room for pause. He’s not yet raised his head, and the keys on the silver ring jingle in his hands when he looks back around the corner. Eventually he nods, extending a hand as if to say ‘this way’.

They both know the rule: no noise. Not even a _breath_ until the proper payment is met. No words can pass their lips, no coughs, no moans, nothing besides the eventual words which could placate the monstrosity of a man Hux has come looking for. And yet, as Mitaka nods, an unspoken agreement passed. Here they both are: Mitaka a victim of circumstance and Hux a willing participant, overwhelmed by what he can’t have and what he needs to know.

Is it foul? Is it disgusting? The intent of Hux’s rather fruitless search was never meant to be malicious, but in this jail it seems there is something darker at play. The depravity of his own fantasies, which are just now coming to light. Dreams, nightmares, haunting visions of lust… all built on death and deceit, murder, bloodshed and torture, the tearing of flesh and the smack of skin against skin.

An enlightenment from the macabre, that’s all it is. But as the door to the cell block clicks open, it dawns on him that it’s so much _more_ to it than that, really-- it’s a need to have humanity in his hands. The fragility of the fraudulent, pandering race is too sweet to deny. And people, all of them, everyone Hux knew, had always called him overambitious, _radical_.

_“Armitage Hux is a monster--_

_\-- corrupt and militaristic. Willing to do anything to get ahead in life.”_

**_And we match so well, don’t we?_ **

The voice slips from nowhere into Hux’s spinning head, rich and regal, subtle, as though it’s been sealed away for a century. Perhaps it has. Perhaps his Man of Many Tastes is something ancient, otherworldly and ethereal.

Or perhaps he’s no more than a deplorable being, lying tangled on the floor in a mess of blood and his own filth.

The walls echo with screams that could rival hell, prisoners encased in metal and glass and speared, drawn bloody, strips of flesh wrung away from skin and made to decay against the tile over the years. Hux doesn’t look at the prisoners. These creations are made from self-loathing and lust, people strung over by their own pity, their own need for someone to solve all their egocentric questions. As if enlightenment could ever be an honest reality. As if any of these _creatures_ could face the Holder aside from himself.

 _Pride is a vice as well,_ the voice reminds him, overdrawn with laughter. _You reek of selfishness. Greed. I can see inside your head. I can see what you want._

Hux doesn’t think and he doesn’t respond. He stares at the wall before him, glassy-eyed and hot in his face, blushing bright even with the howling of the wretched martyrs around him still ringing in his skull. The stench of the place is bordering on decomposition, an amalgam of bodily fluids and excrement and blood, seeping into his nostrils and overwhelming him all at once. Hux can imagine the mess of gore if he thinks long and hard enough, conjuring an image of amputation, castration, a fucked out husk all severed and broken. His stomach churns, like it’s telling him to throw up, but he can’t, can’t turn away, not _now._ This is what he wanted, another part of the world, the desolate part that the _mundane_ refuse to see, hidden underneath that surface of sugarcoated fallacy.

The door is solid and immovable, a dark steel rusted over from years of disuse. Locks and chains adorn the handle, wrapping around bars and hinges as an overdone attempt to cage in whatever beast remained trapped here after so long. _His Holder,_ thrown away and cast into a cage for the betterment of the lying world around him. A faint red light emanates from the cracks and as it glints in Hux’s eyes, the pulse of his heart speeds.

 _Thudthudthudthud._ He hears the blood rushing through his head, his body, his chest pumping in time with each of his steps. Hux’s eyes are rimmed red from the intentness of his journey. The cold embrace of sleepless nights never deterred him, not when his revelation was within reach. Not when his own world had been _decimated_ in favor of getting to this point.

Mitaka’s hands work to undo the crisscrossing mass of chains, to twist the key into each lock , one after the next, until the door stands ajar by only a few centimeters.

Every one of Hux’s instincts screams at him to leave, but his mind is deadset on getting what he came for and his heart is splitting apart in his throat. He reaches out, seeking…

 _You’ve come to me,_ the voice says, and his thoughts crumble into an oblivion of pitch.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the centuries, Kylo has come to the realization that speaking is a formality, not a necessity--least of all in a place like this. Because he sees, and he sees _too much,_ the bloodshed and the gore and the depravity all compiled into whatever _magnum opus_ he might now hold. Underneath the his feet there is a line of pictures, and they cover the walls like an obscure art, the workings of humanistic voyeurism, _pornography_ focused only on treachery and degeneracy.

Of course, to Kylo--a Holder, a creature so familiar with the concept of deviance--the images are little more than decorations, offset to make the world of his prison cell seem less dull, less… dismal. The static has always been there, invasive in his head, something between light and dark that burrowed its way deep into his skull like a parasite, laid the foundations that would cause a creature to give himself into madness. Over eternity, the pain no longer mattered.

Kylo knows there is a solace to be found in suffering. The condition of life is the epitome of suffering. Livelihood is a poison, reeking and acidic, eroding everything in its path as it spreads through the tide of consciousness.

And it was this _poison_ which had festered under Kylo’s skin, led him to his own captivity. The surrealist views of apathy, all of them condensed into a single body that no longer sought a means of escape. Such trivial dreams were worthless in this world, on this plane.

The door slams, _loud_ , cacophony blaring in Kylo’s ears, both unusual and full of promise. He gathers himself into a right stance, tall and imposing even with the black fabric pooled around his feet. His muscled arms pull himself up from the floor, away from the grime, filthy refuse and his own shame.

He knows the mind presented to him with such a deep intimacy it seems as though it’s Kylo’s own.

  
This Seeker has no shame. He does not allow it. He buries everything deep inside, under an empty shell that blooms with hatred and loathing, the product of a hubris that hasn’t been forced out of him, even with age.

But Kylo has hardly skimmed the surface, hasn’t seen. He can merely _feel,_ through the atmosphere and the thoughts that cut through his own inner eye like a knife, sliding like butter into the organized layers of his brain. Something underneath the Seeker’s flesh is straining, aching and yearning to escape. An infernal _catastrophe_ , crying to be seen, demanding to be prostrated before the eyes of the damned.

Kylo Ren turns around, at last, to gaze upon his visitor.

The urge to laugh is overwhelming. The boiling echo rumbles low in his throat, lingering on his tongue, and demanding to be heard. Oh, but this Seeker is _pretty,_ still something near immaculate, yet with the smoothest white flesh and the most brilliant red hair. Slight in frame as he stands there, eyes glinting with an emotion unknown to the Holder’s realm. His head screams for something, eyes flicking over Kylo’s in dissociative loathing.

Was his inner chaos _pleasure?_ A twisted pleasure, befit only for monsters, as the Seeker’s eyes found a single picture on the wall behind Kylo’s head? His face shifts once more, lip curling in disgust and nose upturned as he returns Kylo’s stare, silent as he holds it longer than should be possible.

“You like it,” comes the accusation, Kylo’s own teeth bared in a smile that glints of raw hunger and metallic, sanguine approval. “You look, you enjoy, you take _pleasure_ in this.”

His feet smack against the stone as he crosses the floor, a few broad steps bringing him closer to the Seeker. Kylo sizes him up and begins to impress a stare upon him that bores into skin. It’s the animal talking, the human spirit still inside of him that _yearns_ , and they’re so close, breaths mingling around the _glorious decay_ reflected in the space between them.

“Monsters shouldn’t be so pretty,” Kylo murmurs, reaching a hand up to stroke through the man’s pretty copper locks. The Seeker flinches away, pulls in on himself, averting his eyes.

But his reluctance dissipates sooner than expected. There’s a short hitch in his breath, recoiling only for a second before Hux voices, “What would pleasure be without pain?”

His question is answered with silence, but tension permeates the air, bringing it to a fervent, roiling heat. There is darkness in the Seeker’s eyes that lingers inside his very core, a monster that seems to awaken as his thoughts fall to the acquiescence of gore and rape, the trauma found in all of the sadomasochistic pandering that paints the walls of this cell.

_Gutted beings with their stomachs undone and guts strewn over the floor, hands shoved into themselves._

_Maggots squirming in eye sockets too caved to see._

_Knives buried to the hilt in the epicenter of a body._

_Heads dripping blood from the tip of a spike._

_Skulls severed open and tongues wrenched from throats until voices are rendered useless._

It’s such a wickedness, and yet Kylo Ren can tell this man--no, _creature_ , more a creature than even he is _\--_ feels _gratified._

He cannot hold the laughter in anymore. It spills out, and Kylo’s face lights up with a grin of psychosis, the wild, raucous laughter bubbling over the sides of his awareness like a witch’s cauldron. It’s more an applause than anything as he grasps hold of the Seeker’s arm, tucks him closer, right into the line of his chest. The man flinches away, as if startled from a reverie, before--with a beauty that is unmatched--he _realizes._

The Seeker drops to his knees, fingers along his temples, gripping tight and pressing in further and further, compelled to tear at his own skin. Kylo would let him, knows how beautiful he’d be all covered in blood, pleading, begging him for mercy. But if there’s something this strange nymph of his _can’t_ lose, it’s his fragile _softness._

“No,” the Holder says, and he wrenches those bony, gelid hands away from the Seeker’s face, drawing him nearer before throwing him to the floor. His body collides with the cement beneath them, a solid crack the most distinguished sound amongst the silence. And then, as if by a miracle, it dissolves into tears: his Seeker lays there, surrounded by depravity, _the very thing he craved,_ and quivers.

Kylo reaches out, his consciousness latching onto the fibers of pleasure, those _lustful_ thoughts in the furthest recesses of the Seeker’s mind, and he pulls.

The screech is unlike anything he’s ever heard, a banshee’s terror that carries with it syllables of a name, a hysterical presence clad in smoke and hidden by mirrors.

“I--,” the Seeker stammers and Kylo grins, kneeling by his side.

“Armitage,” Kylo tries, but it doesn’t fit his Seeker properly. He shakes his head, tries again, “ _Hux.”_

The intake of breath is sharp, rasping, a low sob pitching as Kylo’s hand rests along the curve of Hux’s shoulder, sliding upward to hold him at the nape of his neck.

“What do you know of me?” Hux asks, and it’s as if the true intentions, the being inside Hux _,_ has come undone, twisting and screaming as he lurches forward, those brittle limbs locking around Kylo’s impossibly long legs.. His face twists into an expression of unsound mind, before he’s pressing closer, the words turning into a myriad of sounds never heard in this plane of existence- too primitive, too _human._

“Disgusting, _loathsome_ being! You sicken me. Look me in the eye and tell me what you know! You will do it--you _will_ \--or it’ll be _your_ guts lining the walls!”

A hand slides up to cradle Hux’s face, tracing along the edge of his firm, angular jaw, so rigidly set that Hux’s features are almost permanently sculpted into contempt.

“Such a filthy being you are, to threaten me,” Kylo chuckles once more. His hand slides to Hux’s throat and, without remorse, he slams the man’s pretty head right into the floor.

Kylo’s grip shifts and tightens, fingers twining in Hux’s hair and jerking until a sudden moan parts from those rosebud lips. “Beautiful only in form,” He continues, “Inside _you’re_ the disgusting one, don’t you know? It’s _you,_ the creature meant to be caged in a personal hell.” A pause. “Do you think I could _cut_ the sickness out of you, Hux? Do you think I could _fuck_ it out of you? Split open your head, your gut, your chest. Your blood is black, isn’t it? Black is the only color it could be with all the _refuse_ that runs through your veins.”

Hux has stilled now, his unfocused eyes twitching without sight as hands finally relax on Kylo’s hips, his mind caught between trepidation and contrition.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? The contamination?” Kylo adjourns.

Hux speaks, then, his vow breaking with that first _true_ break of quiet. The words fly from him, damning only to himself, but his skin is so red, his body so restless that he seems incapable of controlling himself. “Are you going to file me away? Another worthless piece of pornography for your collection? Perhaps you’ll unravel me first, unwind my skin bit by bit until I’m little more than a pile of blood and guts--”

And then it’s _Hux_ who is laughing, something wicked, maniacal and ear-splitting. “You _want_ me. You worthless, unhinged animal. You want something pretty that you can keep, a possession, entirely yours to do with as you please. You’re desperate, aren’t you? Been aching with desperation for so long, this… _loneliness?_ How pitiful. _You,_ who has been gifted sight and yet can never understand--”

A hand is slammed across Hux’s mouth and Kylo leers, keeping him pinned and writhing. The Seeker, this pathetic, _egocentric_ thing, would look so lovely shaded red, dotted in blood.

A true Emperor for a realm of the Damned.

“You’re mine now, _Armitage._ ” he hisses, voice low. “ _Mine,_ and I will _own_ you, keep you tied down in a corner and make you worship me as you should have from the beginning. If I am pitiful, you are _pathetic,_ made to be on your _knees_ , you spoiled, self-indulgent _whore_!”

Kylo is clambering atop him, shoving him down and down and down. Their mouths seal together in a kiss so brutal it _scorches,_ claiming and devouring everything that is left of the Seeker’s body. Whatever Hux was before has been lost to the oblivion he’d willingly entered. _Reality,_ free of corrosion, of derision, of _liars._ A reality made of chaos, of foulness, of the very pornography Hux was always meant to become a part of.

Perhaps he was even destined for this.

Kylo’s nails--painted black even as they are long and thick with grime, cracked at the edges from too long spent uncared for--sink into the flesh of Hux’s sides. Fabric is torn away, wrenched from Hux’s body without care or comment, and he keeps clawing, digging in deeper and deeper with those talon like claws, only stopping when the holes of Hux’s flesh begin to bleed, seeping that pitch, that liquid filth.

Armitage Hux is like acid. The black-tinged blood leaves a rash when it spills across Kylo’s hand, but it cannot deter him. Kylo’s only want is to keep tearing, to open Hux up completely. He longs to ruin him, his pretty Seeker, fill the insides of that lovely, battered torso with his release, piss on that sweet, succulent flesh and mark Hux as his and his alone.

It’s only as he undoes the buckle on his Seeker’s belt that he looks up and notices the revolted look contorting Hux’s features, can feel the inhale and exhale of his unsteady breaths. His breath smells of rot, _decomposition_ , and for a moment it’s the only thing Kylo can acknowledge; the presence of death, and of _life,_ warmth that feels unusual and warped.

In the mere second of his reprieve, the pause in between movements, Kylo fails to notice the hands sliding along his face. Without hesitation, Hux’s thumbs press down on the indent of his cheeks and _gripwrench_ ** _tear_** it away. Kylo’s teeth ache to bite down, sink into bone and rip hunks of flesh off of Hux’s perfect figure, but the most he can do is startle. And then _howl._

_Riiiip._

Cartilage comes undone for those clipped and clean fingers, dainty hands that pry at him and stretch out until Kylo _snarls_ , forcefully snapping his jaw shut. He leans in at the bitter cry that escapes this creature who dared defy him.

_Yes, this one, THIS one. Hux. He would be so beautiful in my collection, a crowning jewel--_

The Holder spits the upper section of Hux’s finger back at him, and his hands lock in place around Hux’s throat, choking and receding and choking again. He hefts the red-haired man to his feet and slams him back into the wall, any semblance of compatriotism fading. Hux’s skull collides with cement as before, but this time with a thundering crack as Kylo’s reward, comparable to theatrical applause. His sea-glass eyes flash open, fumbling in futility to claw at the force which Kylo uses to command him.

With a palm cracking across his face, Hux is on the floor, his knees buckled beneath his lithe frame, scattering pictures about the space where he’d fallen. His head tilts forward, as though he’s prostrating himself-- _exactly how it should be--_ wheezing around the bruises shading his neck, the crushed voice box that no longer is willing to function.

 _If violence is what you want, it’s what you’ll be given,_ Kylo tells him. _And you’ll grow to enjoy it. You’ll grow to understand._

There’s not another sound to be heard, nothing in the world aside from the foot bearing down on Hux’s back, stiff between his shoulderblades and forcing his head to the floor until he’s fully bowed, a slave at the feet of his master. Kylo’s fingers wind into those beautiful ginger locks, no longer immaculately slicked back. His body slides over Hux, enveloping the mangled victim with his own scarred form. Teeth find a pressure point, and Kylo nips at Hux’s skin sparingly as he sinks them into the side of that black-ringed throat, tearing and eating away at the expanse of skin.

Hux’s pitiful attempt at words dissolves into agonized moans, thoughts corroding away into little more than faint screams as he tilts his chin and exposes himself, no qualms in offering his sweet flesh for the Holder’s taking. His hands scrabble for perch against the ground, something to anchor himself to, but he never finds it. He’s descending rapidly, cascading into oblivion, the blood seeping over his being and bathing him, rebirthing his being into the opposite world, the parallel.

Kylo takes Hux against his chest as his breathing slows, eyelids fluttering momentarily when Kylo strokes along the patches of soft tissue that remain on his neck. His own glare deepens, then settles, features relaxing in a childish display of contentment--the most he could be granted for existence.

The precipice crumbles. Kylo Ren’s deviance is far from absolved, but he has mastered it, and he is ruler here. The Seeker is _his._ Hux was made for him, and now…

He cannot be allowed to leave. Cannot be allowed to escape his fate, cannot be allowed to remove himself from the collection… cannot _be,_ without Kylo.  
  
His hand slips deep into the open wound on Hux’s chest, the man’s violent marrow sighing in contentment. His blood halts at an impasse; then, effortlessly, he tumbles. Down, down, down into the pit of melancholia...

Kylo smiles.

Hux’s mind is a perversion all its own.

 

* * *

 

 

The pain was unyielding, scorching flame that bit at his flesh, scalding him black with tongue of lust. Akin to being spitted and burned alive, Hux conceded, curling in on himself further and further and further, cringing, legs kicking wildly at the air in some failed display of rage. Underneath his skin, the pitch flowed black and inky, oozing from beneath the cracks in his own visage and dribbling from pores onto ashen stone--it was a reminder of his own futility, how impossibly human he was.

In this realm, Hux could hardly feel himself. He couldn’t separate his own being from the animal inside his skin, the fever which consumed him and plucked the spirit from his body without a second thought. Those dreaded, godawful words continued to split his skull open, cleave him in half with the weight bestowed to them.

 _Worthless, treacherous filth, slime, undesirable, a heathen, a wretch, a desperate and prurient slut--you should be ashamed of yourself, Hux, for your sins, for the depraved acts you’ve no doubt committed. I can smell the blood on your hands, the lust in your heart, and it reeks of shame--you should be ashamed,_ **_ashamed!_ **

The voice bends and ebbs away, crossing the lines between his subconscious and his presence, absorbing sentience by whatever means possible. He can hear them all, Phasma, Tarkin, his father-- _him,_ the Holder, the being of true contempt, a deplorable to be spat on, not even human…!

And yet…

 _Falsehoods._ Hux finds his eyelids fluttering, like long cobwebs across pale cheeks, as he sits forward and tumbles back all over again. What was once a drab cement room has become a hallway, stretched through black marble, the throws of splendor in an empire yet to be named. Decapitated heads line the pikes along slim columns of bone, trophies for an Emperor, ney, a _harbinger_ of destruction all its own…

_What could be more beautiful?_

Hux is lost for a moment, transfixed, wondering if this is what could’ve been, what could’ve been _waiting_ for him in this netherworld for so long, the epitome of his dreams come to fruition… the tiles are no longer obsidian, they run wet with streams of crimson and alizarin, slicking his ankles with the tides of mortality…

And then he looks up and sees.

The Holder stands there, his fingers sliding along the curve of a creature’s throat, dancing along the outline of raw bruises decorating flesh of alabaster. A slim band of black locks around that injured throat, anchored in place by a length of chain stretching to the foot of a throne that still sets bare, lying in wait for a ruler.

Something within Hux’s chest aches; a magnetism, willing him forward, willing him to look upon that woeful creature who has so willingly placed itself in submission. It is indistinguishable, now, but _familiar,_ crying for attention underneath a mask of anhedonia--

\-- _the hair._

 _Oh,_ and it is such a lovely shade, somewhere between red and gold, disheveled and matted with blood. Tears slide from its eyes, dotting the lines of features that have been carefully sculpted into a mask of disgust, hands shaking as fingers scrape for a hold on slick stone; the nails, too, have been wrenched off, plucked from each finger with the utmost care, but nothing matters in this moment as much as the _eyes._

Those eyes-- _his eyes,_ yet gentler, broken. Hux can see the reflection of something once held dear that is little more than a memento preserved in a fragile echo of himself. Is this him? Rather, him as he _could_ be, could have _become,_ pliant and yielding to the whims of another’s power?

 _Yes,_ the Holder’s voice speaks inside his mind. _This is you, not Hux, but Armitage--that weak-willed boy, thin as a slip of paper._

The words claw at something within Hux’s chest, and as if possessed, he can feel a jutting _pain,_ hands working between his ribs and bending them apart, eager to pry that venom-filled organ he calls a heart out from under his skin, show him how depraved he really is.

Hux hates to admit that it succeeds. Armitage, _his other,_ is stretched across a tapestry woven of pale ivory and gold, shameless. His body is riddled with lines that weep with the most lovely tears of red, legs spread and arms held high above his head, fixed by a cord made of slick masses, the glistening appendages interwoven to become one. Darkness seeps from him, murmuring curses and hexes and jinxes alike, drawing Hux ever closer until his own being is wracked with a soft sob of humiliation.

And it is humility, isn’t it? When Armitage manages to tilt his head and cast his gaze upon the black-robed mass of a man whose hands so willingly slide along the contours of that _skinny_ body, his _tiny_ waist, his--petiteness, something offers, and Hux shudders. It is not supposed to be like this, no, because _he isn’t the weak one here,_ he had nothing to lose and everything to gain! Power, unrivaled, and he’d let it slip from his fingers carelessly.

_Useless._

An electricity seems to bristle in Hux’s very core, and he finds that even with whatever strenuous effort he puts forth, he cannot move. A hand slides along the other’s abdomen, fingers sliding with ease inside of a wound that had dripped in pain. And Armitage _moans,_ his mouth slipping open with a wordless sigh and a cascading echo of pleasure, as his flesh parts so willingly for the entrance of another being.

The Holder procures a knife, startlingly silver, lined with stardust and the edges of ash, drawing it along the indent between hip and thigh. Armitage shifts, bidding, stretching out his limb and allowing the Holder to press it back, hold it high in the air as the dagger teases the edge of his weeping arousal.

A staccato of gasps, as his eyes shut-- _“Please, Lord Ren, please, let me be of use-”--_ and the digits are slipping out of his side, an abyss of ink spilling with the release and draining to a puddle on the floor. The Holder, this _Ren,_ seems to smile, though his face is hidden from Hux.

And then the screaming starts, wails of despair, _have mercy, have mercy, Lord, have I not been a good pet, a gracious whore? What do you want, I can give you it, anything, anything, my blood, turn me out from the inside and bring me to ruin, string my intestines around your head like a crown and wear my skin as a cape, my being is for You, blessed Holder of Perversion-!_

Too late, and Hux finds that the words have escaped his own throat, lingering on his tongue, the dryness of his mouth having become something unfamiliar and soul-shattering. His body is pushed down against the throne, slid along the pale gold and silken seats, chin tilted up as a hand cards through his ginger hair, thoughtless.

“The disheveled wretch who dared to believe he could cross me, a fascist whelp with no understanding of true _passion._ ” Ren is cooing in his ear now, and a tongue trails along the nape of his neck, teasing along his spine just under the skin. It is slimy and unnatural, a parasite to his own being, and Hux _hisses._

 _“_ You depraved creature! Come to gloat about whatever sick fetishes you’ve put in my mind? I’m not _interested_ in your games--I am not interested in your _magic tricks_!”

“You’re a petty sycophant, Hux,” Ren whispers, and the crawling under his skin subsides, momentarily, before a flare of _pain_ ripples and stretches and _bursts,_ and suddenly it’s as if there are millions of hands on him, holes burned through flesh and bone and organ, into the muddled canvas at the center of Hux’s being--

And yes, _yes, he is filthy,_ has always been. Fucked in the head and nihilistic, interested in only _reaping the benefits,_ manipulative, worse than his _father._ Hux knows now, he can _see it,_ and Ren is echoing his own sentiment again with those simple words, **“You’re depraved.”**

A hand slides along his knee, soft fingerpads grazing the side of his shaft and toying with the sensitivity of his skin, kneading and pinching at any desirable place within reach. It’s _Armitage,_ eyes splitting his being in half as he watches Hux from between his legs. He reaches out to hook hands under either of the Seeker’s knees, spreading his limbs up and apart onto either edge of the throne, teasing the line of his entrance with a hand slicked in blood and grime. Even with fingernails gone and dirt staining his body, wax sliding along his sides and _wrath_ outlining every inch of him, Armitage is _beauty._ A pure indulgence that _Hux_ had never experienced, never thought he could want.

But he does; he is overwhelmed by the sheer force of his want, and as the first two fingers slide into him, probing and crooking and opening him fully, Hux allows his eyes to close, a breathy whimper passing his lips for the first time in existence. It’s _wrong,_ of course--all of this, _submitting_ to his own most revolting desires.

By his own success and his own _loathing,_ Hux is greedy and he knows it. He is _envious,_ of this power and the display by which a Holder has given it to him. Ren’s hands are firm on his waist, almost circling it in full, pinching the worn-out skin tight until the veins pop in his purple-lined abdomen.

Hux nearly _sobs._

“Please,” he allows himself to say, finally. “I am _depraved.”_

Overexertion and submission are what holds sweet on his lips, lingering in his mouth with a taste similar to blood and nectar--impossibly salacious even when it shouldn’t be. Hux hardly allows himself a chance to move; he’s not struggled, isn’t sure he even could, when the heat is searing him and ebbing through his unconscious mind with a pulse of heat that radiates _desire._

It is only a further manifest of what was clear before. Now, Hux no longer has the mind to _care._

Armitage is over him now, not hesitating, as his own calloused palms tangle around Hux’s throat, nudging his thighs further apart and pinning him down.

There, on a throne, naked and begging, Hux wonders if something has truly broken inside him. After all _he_ is the one who craves this… this _deviance._

The air is purged from his lungs with a rapid momentum, consuming and smothering whatever fire had still burned within his being. Hux twists, his skull slamming once more into a solid surface, blood dotting his brow when his temple collides with the back of the throne. He can feel his mouth being pried open, and there’s a _grasp,_ something catching on his tongue, _ripping loose,_ and Hux screams.

All at once he’s being split in two and corrupted, skewered by his own goddamn arousal, the heady pressure of nauseating lust surmounting from the inside to cripple him in full. Hux’s clothes are gone now, legs held in the air and anchored to the ceiling by twisting sinews of rope, each thrust bringing more blood to the surface that leaks out around Armitage’s cock. Hux jolts, a broken whine, a lost moan, despairing, even through the blood seeping through his lips and down the lines of his mouth, across the porcelain of his jaw. He can feel- yes, _tingling_ , everywhere, around his body, as his spine curves and he bends like a bow under the will of his doppelganger--

Only _Armitage,_ only Hux _himself_ can have this.

Jagged teeth are sinking into his neck, _marking_ Hux deep and hard, like iron blades ripping through pure flesh. Hux’s toes curl and his hips buck upward of their own volition, legs struggling against restrictive binds as he squirms beneath the heat of his overpowering fever. Hux’s anxious hands cling to Armitage’s shoulders, hooking around them, slipping down his back to trace over the curve of his buttocks.

A hilt comes to him unbidden and Hux jerks it out, rapidly, the squelch of splitting flesh hardly noticed. The knife is a solid weight in his hand, bronze-hilted and bejeweled, dripping with a blue fluid that Hux flicks thoughtlessly across their forms. Ren’s hand is steady on his back, encouraging, as hands slip around his chest and settle firmly on his undefined pectorals, jerking and sinking in--

Hux brings the blade down and Armitage _shrieks._ It rips the flesh from his bones, his mind left reeling as it shatters time and time again, a mess of crystalline structures shot to ruin. The blood seeps out between his fingers and Hux’s hands fit inside the wound, fixed there, his clone impaled on his hands like a puppet and his own being displayed like a marionette, hooks affixed through the muscles of his calves as he’s forced to stay leaking and open…

The world seems to falter, coming to a standstill as Hux’s psyche fragments. If there was anything there before, anything of _certainty,_ of _purity,_ it’s certainly gone now. Madness has swept into Hux’s own black ichor and now sustains him. He is human no longer-- such a primeval, diluted race is _worthless_ to him. There is power, power fruitful only in his abhorrent disgrace, in _giving himself_ to others, _using himself_ to eradicate weakness.

The mark of teeth on his neck itches with a power of unimaginable strength. Kylo’s fingers rub along it, soft, pleased as he caresses Hux’s swollen throat, that smart, grinning mouth warm on his skin.

Hux would be foolish to ignore the touch.

“You have not disappointed me, my Emperor.”

 

* * *

**  
** _“What does one want when one is engaged in carnal acts? That everything around you give you its utter attention, think only of you, care only for you...every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates.” - Marquis de Sade_


End file.
